


bela lugosi's dead

by TheResurrectionist



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Crack, Deer, Gen, I guess Bruce has Edward's powers? idk why, SuperBat, The Author Regrets Everything, Vampire AU, Vampires, batfamily, but not really, clark is a vampire who bakes for his townspeople and they pretend to eat it because they love him, immortal batfamily, this got way longer than I intended, tragic backstories, twilight - Freeform, various overt references to twilight
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-29
Updated: 2018-12-06
Packaged: 2019-07-04 07:37:56
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15836742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheResurrectionist/pseuds/TheResurrectionist
Summary: Small towns seem even smaller when you’re trying to hide. When the entire family can’t keep a secret, Bruce Wayne--struggling vampire dad--finds out that they’re basically microscopic.“So, since there aren’t as many deer near the town this year, the state’s giving out individual buck tickets.” Jim said. “The seasonal hunters spoke with me, and we were hoping you could, uh,” he looked away, clearly uncomfortable with the subject matter. “...stick to the does until November.”“Stick to the does.” Bruce repeated, raising his eyebrows. “Yeah, uh.” he drew up short, struggling to form a response. “Uh huh, I think we could definitely, uh...do that.”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Dedicated to the Superbat discord, who keeps humoring my dumb ideas even though I hardly ever write them. You guys rock <3

Bruce guided the Aston Martin around the last curve of the Wayne driveway, steering into the garage. He flicked a button on the console, exiting the car and grabbing his briefcase from the backseat. The garage door closed behind him, hissing softly as it slid into place, locked.

A quick sniff of the air told him Clark was cooking again. He could sense the microscopic particles of chocolate in the air, drifting lazily from the kitchen and into the attached garage.

Ten or so miles down the road, the three square blocks Glenview called _downtown_ pulsed softly against the edges of his mind. A few dozen people in the shopping market, a handful in the park; Bruce drew himself away from their thoughts, doing a quick circle around the Wayne property.

 _Damian, Tim,_ he counted, sensing them at the distant edge of the north lake. Dick and Jason were in the rec room, playing with Ace. Stephanie and Cass were upstairs watching a movie. Alfred was in the kitchen, keeping Clark company. Bruce caught the tail end of his thoughts as he climbed the stairs into the house, briefcase in hand.

_...incredible amount of nutmeg for a...cake?..._

He felt his shoulders relax, brushing against Clark’s thoughts, and willed his mind back into his own head. His husband was stirring dough--actually, he was covered in it--delighting in the way it bubbled up between his fingers. Clark sent out a warm _welcome home,_ the words curling in Bruce’s mind, pushing him through the parlor and into the kitchen a little faster than most humans could move.

Clark looked up from his dough as he entered, sending him a stunning smile. His sleeves were rolled up to the elbow, but this had done little to keep them out of the mess he’d created. From the small island, Alfred waved his hello, a glass of Rosé beside him.

“Master Wayne,” the old vampire said, inclining his head, “How was your trip?”

“Uneventful,” Bruce said, setting his briefcase down on a chair. He leaned across the counter, accepting a kiss from Clark as he tried to keep his tie out of the mixing bowl. “How’re the kids?”

“You mean the brood?” Clark asked.  

“You know I hate it when you call them that.” Bruce said, undoing his tie. “I sensed Tim and Damian up near the lake. They’re hunting early, aren’t they?”

“It’s 7PM, Bruce.” Clark shrugged. “They’re young, they get hungry a little early. Not all of us like traipsing out into the woods in the middle of the night--”

“It’s  _safer,_ ” Bruce said, finally freeing himself from the necktie. He set it down, shrugging out of his jacket as well. “Less possible witnesses. We’ve had this discussion.”

“We’ve _also_ had the discussion about this house being, ah, ten miles away from our closest neighbor,” Clark said, pouting slightly. He gave his dough one last stir, sliding it into a pan. Bruce still had no idea what it was supposed to be. “They’ll be fine. The deer don’t graze near the town this season, anyway.”

“Since when did you become a deer expert?”

“Well, I was over at Betty’s house this morning delivering cookies,” Bruce cringed internally, reminding himself to send Betty an apology letter after the inevitable bout of food poisoning passed, “And we were sitting there and her husband mentioned that the hunting hasn’t been going all that well. Apparently the deer aren’t congregating in their usual spots, like the woods by the river.”

“Huh,” was all Bruce said, watching as Clark prepared to put his pan in the oven. He’d sprinkled something even Bruce couldn’t identify on top. It smelled….acidic? And not in a good way.

Alfred met his eyes over the island as Clark fumbled for the oven mitts. Even hundreds of years old, invincible, and colder than ice, his husband still insisted on appearing normal. _Stop him,_ that look said, in all caps. _Immediately._

“Hey, babe,” Bruce ventured, leaning casually against the island.  “Is that, uh, a new recipe?”

“Brownies!” Clark exclaimed, sliding a pan of something that perhaps had once resembled brownie batter into the oven. “This was my mother’s recipe. Remember, you tried it once?”

 _In 1450,_ Bruce thought to himself, resisting the urge to cringe again. “Babe, uh. I thought we were, uh, trying the recipes on the box? Remember?”

Clark’s smile disappeared. He closed the oven, shedding his mitts. “ _Bruce._ This was my _mother’s_ recipe. They’ll love them. I was going to give brownies out at the back to school festival they’re having tomorrow--”

Bruce made a mental note to intercept said brownies by any means possible. “Uh huh.”

“--and Sally was saying how they just didn’t have enough snacks this year, and I figured since you’ve already donated enough--”

_Just shy of two million this tax period, yes._

“--we could do this instead!” Clark finished, his smile returning. “What do you think?”

Bruce leaned in for another kiss. “Amazing, babe.”

Alfred met his gaze again, a knowing look in his eyes. Bruce mouthed _later_ to him, knowing he’d need the logistical support.

“I’m gonna go check on the kids.” He said, turning for the door.   

 _“Brood,_ ” Clark called from behind him. Bruce shook his head, throwing his jacket and tie over his shoulder. “And they’re too old for you to call them kids, you know that, right?”

“I know that,” Bruce muttered, closing the door behind him.

* * *

Dick and Jason were watching _Interview with a Vampire_ for the sixteenth time in the rec room. Bruce stuck his head in, cringed, and waved them on, getting a brief flashback to the 17th century that had way too much purple velvet and gold embroidery for comfort.

 _Clark looked ridiculous in those socks, I don’t care what he says,_ he thought, heading for the master suite. _God, I wish we’d gotten a portrait done. Jason would be horrified._

A quick brush of his mind outside the house put Tim and Damian a few miles north still. The instinct to find them--and drag them home by their necks--was typical for a head of a family, but not one he indulged often. He sat down on the bed, deciding to meditate until they’d returned.

* * *

It wasn’t like he and Clark had set out on a centuries-long path together from the start, collecting immortal children with the goal of someday achieving domestic bliss. No. They hadn’t even really liked each other at first.

Bruce refused to tell the kids how they’d met. Clark, despite his proclivity for romance, humored him in keeping it secret. He’d spun countless tales to Dick when they’d first come across the boy, but the ridiculous stories of pirates and kings he’d told had eventually given way to boring recounts of love-struck, competitive cobblers.

On one memorable occasion when Jason had asked, they’d met doing sewage work in France during the revolution’s stinkiest hour. Even with Clark’s flawless French and Bruce’s hazy memories of some of the key clashes, nobody had believed them.

Hundreds of years living _with_ humans had made him realize just how peaceful being a recluse was. Clark, still caught in the throes of his eternal mission to make the earth a better place, chafed at the idea of solitude. He’d always found a way to connect with the local population, no matter where they’d lived. During the World Wars, he’d dabbled in medicine--always something discrete; a runner, or a stretcher-carrier. Clark, like Bruce, had lost his bloodthirst centuries ago, but the proximity had always been ambitious. At his core, Clark was a nurturer--hence, his recent baking obsession.

Bruce paused in his meditation, lips pursing. _Fuck. Still need to ‘accidentally’ throw those brownies in the trash._

A mile down the driveway, a quick flick of his mind found Tim and Damian hurrying toward the house, agitated. He snapped out of his meditation pose, on his feet and on the first floor before a second had passed.

Clark, hearing his footsteps, was at his side in a flash. He had a rag between his hands, wiping away the remnants of the ill-fated brownie batter. Together, they stepped onto the front porch, senses wide open, ready for danger.

Bruce saw Damian first, his pale face pinched in the dim light of the garage. Tim followed closely behind him, watching their backs with wide, dark eyes. There was a smear of blood across his mouth, like he’d finished feeding in a hurry. Damian still looked thirsty.

“Bruce!”

He stepped onto the grass, Clark a half-step behind him, keeping an eye on the property. The two boys ran up to them, panting slightly.

“What happened?” Bruce growled.

“We were feeding,” Tim said, rushed. He put a hand to his mouth, frowning when it came away smudged in red. “I grabbed a deer. Damian was watching--”

“A hunter was behind us.” Damian finished, head dropping in shame. His fists curled at his sides. “I didn’t sense his heart until he was upwind of us. But Father--”

“Who was it?” Bruce interrupted, cutting off his son with a hand. “The hunter.”

“Jim Gordon,” Tim said, slightly shaky. “I think. I don’t know. I was busy _eating--_ ”

“Well, maybe you should have chosen a more remote location,” Damian said, turning to him with an irritated expression. “Instead, your inability to _wait_ has cost us our covers--”

“Oh yeah, and whose job was it to be the lookout again?” Tim asked, throwing his hands up. “ _Not mine!_ ”

At his side, Clark sighed. Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose, thoughts racing as his children bickered.

 _Another bribe?_ his husband thought in his direction. _We can’t pack up again. We just got here._

They’d lived here for over three years, but that was beside the point. Bruce let out a deep breath, forcing a neutral expression on his face.

“I’ll talk to Jim tomorrow,” he said, patting Clark on the shoulder. “How about I drive you to the back to school event? I’m sure he’ll be there.”

 _and those brownies can go straight into the trash while you talk to Betty,_ he thought as Clark smiled at him, worry disappearing.

“That’d be great, babe.”

“Awesome,” he said with an enthusiasm he definitely didn’t feel. Behind him, Tim and Damian were still arguing. “I’m going to go eat dinner.”

Clark waved him off. “Have fun. I’ll be in bed.”

“I’ll hurry back, then,” Bruce said, winking. Tim and Damian paused their fighting to make simultaneous gagging noises. He doubled down, amused. “Wear those lace shorts I bought you!”

Already inside, Clark sent him a wave of amusement. “How do you know I’m not already?”

Damian and Tim shared a look of disgust. After some unspoken agreement, they headed inside, leaving Bruce on the porch alone.

* * *

“Mr. Wayne! I didn’t think I’d see you here!”

Bruce smiled, repositioning his sunglasses as he approached the baked goods table. It was overcast--as usual--but it didn’t hurt to have an extra layer on. “Betty, please. I told you to call me Bruce.”

“Bruce,” she said, agreeably. He knew she’d revert to ‘Mr. Wayne’ as soon as their conversation finished. “Where’s the hubby? I heard he was making something for the, uh kids?”

He hesitated, unable to ignore the note of tension in her voice. Clark’s cooking had clearly preceded itself. Upon examination, she didn’t seem visibly ill, but it could have passed by now.

“Why, yes...I heard something about that too.” Bruce held up a plastic bag, revealing Clark’s latest concoction. “He’s parking the car.”

Together, they both stared at the bag in silence, struggling to find something to talk about. Bruce saw her heart rate begin to spike and lowered the bag, turning around. Clark was a dozen feet away, waving at some friends from the PTO as he approached the bake table.

“He really just wants to help out the kids,” Bruce offered, awkwardly. “He baked all night.”

Betty nodded slowly. “Everyone is so...grateful.”

“Right--”

“Hey,” Clark said, winding a hand around Bruce’s waist. His sunglasses were tucked into his jacket pocket, revealing the eerie, dark-honey coloring of his eyes. “What’d I miss? Hey, Betty!”

“Hi Clark,” Betty said, smiling fondly--if somewhat exasperatedly--at him. She didn’t mention the eyes, but she’d clearly seen them before. Bruce watched her respiration increase, half-glamoured already, and elbowed his husband. “I…”

 _What?_ Clark asked mentally, oblivious. Bruce sent him an image of his sunglasses, resisting the urge to facepalm in front of Betty. _Oh. OH._

“I heard you baked something,” Betty said, after a shaky pause. She sent Bruce a relieved glance. “That was so nice of you, Clark.”

Clark ducked his head. If he’d been human, he would have been flushing. “I just wanted the kids to be happy.”

“Well, I’m sure they’ll, ah, love them,” Betty said, not unkindly. She sent Bruce a _look,_ hesitating. “Oh, wow. Is that Kathy over there? Clark, aren’t you two on the PTO together?”

Clark’s head whipped toward the entrance to the school, just a hair too fast to be normal. Bruce sighed. “Oh, I forgot--I have to talk to her about the playground proposal. Babe, can you--”

“Yeah, I’ve got it,” Bruce said, holding up the bag. He kissed Clark’s cheek. “I’ll meet you at home when you’re done.”

“Love you,” Clark said, disappearing into the crowd of children and frazzled parents. “Bye!”

When he was out of sight, Bruce promptly dropped the bag of brownies into the trashcan next to Betty’s table, wiping his hands. Betty took in a relieved breath.

“He really is a sweetheart,” she said, frowning at the trashcan. “You’ll tell him they were great?”

Bruce cringed, running a hand through his hair. “The best.”

“Good."

* * *

One step into the police station, and Bruce already knew they were fucked.

Every eye turned to watch him; conversations cut off abruptly, pencils pausing against paper. Some stared openly, while others snuck glances, watching him approach the front desk in open apprehension.

Bruce sighed, cursing Tim and Damian internally. Clearly, Jim had shared his observations about his...nighttime encounter.

“Excuse me,” he said politely, addressing the three people behind the desk, “Is Sergeant Gordon here?”

Hearts sped up, followed by respiration. He could smell the bitter sweat of fear and adrenaline, digging into his nose. Nobody spoke.

Bruce cleared his throat. Ramirez, two seats to the right, flinched.

“Jim? Yeah, I think he’s out on a call,” she said, squinting at her computer screen, avoiding his gaze. “Someone was having heart trouble at the church earlier. He might be over there still if you hurry.”

“The church,” Bruce repeated, waiting for the punchline. Someone in the back office snickered. “You’re certain?”

“Is there a problem?”

Images of him trapped at the Church threshold flickered in Ramirez’s mind. Bruce snorted.

“No problem at all,” he smiled, painfully casual. “Thanks for the tip. You have a good day, Lieutenant.”

“You too, Mr. Wayne.” she said, thinking loudly about fangs. With a sigh, he pushed through the doors, heading for the church.

 _My teeth aren't even that big,_  he thought, strangely offended.  _Humans._  


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce and Jim finally have their talk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking with me! Here's the next chapter. After I got about 4k in, I realized it would be better to split this one in two, so watch for the third chapter soon.

“Mr. Wayne…”

Bruce smiled at Father Dent, making sure his teeth didn’t show. In full view of the priest, two parishioners, and a straggling EMT in the foyer, he stepped over the threshold, pushing into the Church.

“Father,” he said, inclining his head. He felt Dent’s heart rate peak, slowly evening out as he approached the votive alcove. “Is everything alright?”

Dent’s mind immediately turned suspicious. Bruce realized, belatedly, that two and a half years had passed since he’d met the man. Had it really been that long since they’d interacted? Of course the man would be wary.

“Mr. Wayne. You heard…”

Images of Bruce’s eyes appeared in the priest’s mind, clouded over in some sort of telepathic mist. He was picturing him….predicting? No, _willing_ the heart attack--

“Ramirez told me,” Bruce said, ripping himself from Dent’s mind before he burst out laughing. “I’m looking for Sergeant Gordon, actually.”

Dent eyed the holy water font, swallowing. After a moment of hesitation, he steeled himself, meeting Bruce’s gaze head-on.

His eyes were a brilliant blue; gold hair reflected light from the candles, vivid against the black of his robes. He looked timeless; like every priest Bruce had seen throughout the centuries, combined into one.

“Why are you looking for Sergeant Gordon?”

Bruce raised an eyebrow, watching himself burn and bubble in Dent’s mind, doused in holy water. “I need to...speak with him.”

“About?”

Bruce smiled, pausing. “I think that’s between me and him, Father.”

Dent narrowed his eyes, taking a clear step toward the font. Bruce sighed, holding up a hand.

“Look, I don’t want any trouble,” he smiled, realizing the gesture was far from reassuring. “I just need to speak with him about my, uh, son.”

Dent made eye contact with the EMT, who was still packing up his gear. He pursed his lips, worrying at the cuff of his habit. He seemed to be...conflicted about Damian’s heritage. That was good--it meant Gordon hadn’t shared outside of the precinct. Maybe he’d only alluded to what he’d witnessed.

With the tiniest-- _tiniest_ \--of mental pushes, he prodded the priest toward acquiescing, too impatient to wait.

“...he had to respond to a flat tire up on Pine Creek road,” Dent said, finally, blinking. His fists clenched at his side, then relaxed. “He’s probably still up there.”

“Perfect,” Bruce said, smiling--letting just a hint of his fangs flash. “Thank you, Father.”

Dent took a step backward, shoulders tensing. Bruce waved cheerfully, crossing back over the threshold.

“See you Sunday!”

The last thing he saw before he entered the parking lot was Dent’s stricken expression.

* * *

Clark’s ringtone-- _Bad Blood_ by Taylor Swift _\--_ started as he got back into the Aston Martin, buzzing against his thigh. With a sigh, Bruce fired up the engine, waiting for the bluetooth to connect to the car’s speakers.

“Hey,” he said, mentally preparing himself for a barrage of questions about the whereabouts of the cardamom brownies. “How’s the PTO?”

“Awful,” Clark said, sounding distraught. “Jenny’s kid is missing. _Missing._ Like kidnapped missing. Can you believe that?”

Bruce frowned, fingers tightening around the steering wheel. “Which one? How?”

“I was going to ask you if you could, you know,” Clark said, most likely making a gesture toward his temple on the other side of the phone, “It’s Kayla. She’s seven. You met her at that one party at Janet’s, remember?”

 _No._ “Yeah.”

“She was supposed to be walking to school but she never showed up. When they went to look for her, they found her backpack in a bush near the freeway exit,” Clark said, rushed. “The whole town’s going to be out looking for her.”

Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose. _Great, as if this town needed another reason to be nervous._

“Just...give me a little longer to drive around, and I’ll see what I can come up with.”

“This whole thing is awful,” Clark tutted, somehow striking the perfect balance between concerned and aloof. “I’m going to make Jenny a casserole. What do you think?”

Bruce nearly swerved off the road, his hands jerking against the wheel. He over-corrected, the Aston Martin squealing against the blacktop. “Wow, babe, that’s….that’s really kind.”

“I’m going to stop at the store. I’m picking up potatoes.” Clark said, determined. “Do I need cheese for a casserole? I keep forgetting. Whatever. I’ll meet you at home, okay?”

“Wear your sunglasses,” Bruce said, “It might get partly cloudy later.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Clark said, in a way that meant he’d touch the sunglasses if and when he remembered they existed--which was never. “Love you babe. Let me know if you find her. Jenny’s really upset.”

“Yep, I will,” Bruce said, reaching for his phone. “Love you too.”

“Love you _more--_ ”

He hit the _end call_ button, exhaling through his nose. After a second, he held the home button down, glaring at the road.

“Send message to Alfred.”

“ _What would you like to send?”_

* * *

It wasn’t long before Bruce came upon Jim’s truck, parked on the shoulder of the road Dent had pointed out. There were no other vehicles in sight, but he could sense the Sergeant’s mind a few dozen feet away from his vehicle. A cloud of smoke drifted up into the air, emanating from just past the treeline.

Bruce parked the Aston Martin behind Jim’s truck, stepping out of his car and onto the gravel road. Almost instantly, the Sergeant turned, his hand going to his gun.

“Hey, Jim,” Bruce said, holding up his hands. It didn’t seem to reassure the other man. “Dent told me you were up here. Everything alright?”

Jim kept his hand on his gun, watching him approach. In his other hand, the cigarette continued to burn, forgotten. Bright blue eyes followed him, full of suspicion.

“Mr. Wayne,” he said, not a greeting or a dismissal. Simply an...acknowledgement. He could work with that. “How can I help you?”

Bruce finally stopped his advancement, a half dozen feet from the Sergeant. He crossed his arms, pasting a smile on his face. Casually, he slipped a hand up, pulling off his sunglasses.

_Might as well go for it..._

“I was speaking to my son last night, and he mentioned he may have...run into you,” Bruce widened his smile, forcing more than a little glamour into his eyes. “I know it was very dark and confusing, and Clark and I wanted to make sure you...understood what you saw, correctly.”

Jim didn’t blink.

“I know exactly what I saw, Mr. Wayne.”

“Right,” Bruce said, forcing a little more compulsion into his smile. “Which was nothing.”

“No.”

“...y- _es_?” Bruce asked, frowning. This time, he turned up his compulsion as high as it would go, adding another mental push. “You saw nothing.”

“I saw your son munching on a deer,” Jim said. He released his hold on his gun, the cigarette drifting back up to his mouth. He took a drag, holding the smoke in his lungs for a moment. “Which, all other laws aside,” he gestured with the cigarette at the treeline, “still requires a hunting permit.”

Bruce stood there, briefly stunned. After a pause, he scratched his neck,  conceding the point.

“And, uh...how much are those again?”

Jim stared at him, not speaking.

“Right,” Bruce said, trying another route. “So if you were willing to keep this quiet--”

“Keep what quiet?” Jim asked, taking another drag.

“You know…”

“The part where you’re all vampires?”

Bruce felt his stomach drop. For a moment, he stared at the trees behind Jim’s head, unable to think of a rebuttal.

“I uh, I don’t--” he cleared his throat, despite having no need to. For some reason, his mind slipped around Jim’s, unable to find a firm foothold. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

The response earned him another unbelievably dry stare. “Mr. Wayne--”

“Bruce, please.” he said, falling too easily into the familiar banter.

“Mr. Wayne,” Jim repeated, lips twisting. He stubbed out his cigarette against the nearest tree trunk, “Let’s not beat around the bush, here--”

“You think I’m a vampire?” Bruce asked, spreading his arms. “Do I look like a vampire to you?”

Jim watched him spin around, clearly resisting the urge to roll his eyes. “Do you really want the answer to that question?”

“You’ve met Clark,” Bruce insisted, waving a hand back toward the main town, “He’s not--”

“I’ve had his baking, yes.” Jim said, like it explained everything. It kind of did.

“I’m going to tell you one more time. I have no idea what you’re talking about. My family and I are--”

Bruce cut off abruptly, turning toward the road. Jim frowned, taking a step forward. His hand drifted back to his gun, still in its holster.

“What is it?”

“I thought I…” Bruce squinted, pushing his mind further down the road. He could almost sense… “Kayla.”

“Jenny’s kid?”

“She went missing this morning,” Bruce turned, still clinging to the distant threads of the presence. “The town is conducting a search. How did you miss that?”

“No signal up here,” Jim said, holding up his walkie talkie. “Too close to the mountains. What happened?”

“I don’t know. Clark called me in the…”

This time, he could feel Kayla’s mind very clearly. She was heading toward them quickly--in a car, then. Bruce glanced into her thoughts, seeing nothing but darkness and fear. He waved at Jim to stay at the treeline, stepping into the road.

“Wayne? What the hell are you doing?”

A dark blue truck rounded the curve, hurtling toward them. Bruce put out a hand, waiting on the centerline.

The driver flinched when he saw him, slamming on his brakes. Bruce watched the man’s face in slow motion, cataloguing every detail. Tires squealed, burning rubber as the vehicle skidded to a stop, inches from his hand.

Bruce rounded the truck, heading for the back. In a haze of Kayla’s fear, he ripped the trunk from its foundations, throwing it to the side. The metal slid across the dirt, digging gouges into the soft dirt.

“You’re okay,” he said, lifting Kayla out of the truck. “You’re safe now. You’re safe.”

The girl shivered in his arms, clinging to him. Bruce was still tuned into her emotions, feeling her slowly begin to crash from the adrenaline rush. He picked her up, putting her against his shoulder as the tears started.

_You’re safe you’re safe you’re safe I promise..._

When he looked up again, Jim had his gun out and trained on the driver, his gaze flicking between the trunk and Bruce. His eyes were wide.

“Put her in your car,” he instructed, gesturing with his head. “I’ll get this one in the back of mine. Follow me to the station.”

Bruce looked back at the truck, spotting the crumpled piece of metal that had once been the trunk. With a quick thought, he sent Kayla into soothing unconsciousness, holding her closer to him.

“Alright,” he said.

* * *

“So,” Jim said, holding up his third Jim Beam neat. Bruce looked up from his phone, curious. It was the first time he’d spoken in the forty minutes they’d been at the bar. “Vampire, huh?”

At two o’clock on a Thursday, the town’s second best watering hole was deserted. The bartender was somewhere in the kitchen--arguing with his girlfriend, Bruce sensed. _Distracted._

“Yeah,” he admitted, scrubbing a hand across his face. He stared at Jim’s drink, envious. “Yeah, that’s us.”

Jim nodded slowly, taking another sip from his drink. He set the glass down, pulling his cigarettes from his jacket pocket. “How old are you?”

“You don’t want to know,” Bruce said, shrugging. “Too old.”

“Clark?”

“Same deal.”

“Hmm.”

“Yep.”

They lapsed into silence again. Jim lit his cigarette, puffing smoke into the air. Bruce was confident smoking indoors had been illegal for a few years by now, but he held his tongue.

“How’d you two meet?”

Bruce shrugged. “One of Jesus’ speeches.”

Jim nearly dropped the cigarette, fumbling for it across the bar. “Seriously?”

“What, don’t believe me?” Bruce asked. He grinned, looking over Jim’s shoulder and out the window. “I mean, theoretically, it’s possible.”

Jim shook his head, finishing his drink in a single gulp. Without hesitating, he reached over the bar, snagging the bottle of Jim Beam. He refilled his glass, still shaking his head.

“So what was it?” Bruce asked. “That gave us away? I mean, before the deer thing.”

Jim returned to his cigarette, taking another drag. He exhaled, pausing. “The whole town knows.”

“Come on,” Bruce scoffed, “the whole town doesn’t know.”

He was met with a look that managed to distill the word _seriously_ into a single facial expression.

“Your husband is the dead giveaway,” Jim said, leaning back into his seat. “You? Not so much. Not until you totaled that truck.”

Bruce nodded. “And Tim, last night.”

“Actually, I was going to bring that back up,” Jim shifted in his seat, his gaze pinning Bruce to his seat. Even inebriated, the man was intimidating. “It’s hunting season.”

“...yes?” Bruce said. “I mean, for you guys it is. Our family, it’s…”

He trailed off. Jim, wisely, decided to move on.

“So, since there aren’t as many deer near the town this year, the state’s giving out individual buck tickets.” Jim said. “The seasonal hunters spoke with me, and we were hoping you could, uh,” he looked away, clearly uncomfortable with the subject matter. “...stick to the does until November.”

“Stick to the does.” Bruce repeated, raising his eyebrows. “Yeah, uh.” he drew up short, mind whirring. “Uh huh, I think we could definitely, uh...do that.”

“Great,” Jim said, actually looking pleased. “I’ll let them know.”

* * *

“So I don’t need to make a casserole!” Clark exclaimed over the phone. “Jenny’s so happy, Bruce. You should have seen her face.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Bruce said, leaning against the door jamb. “You doing okay?”

Behind him, Jim was chatting quietly with the bartender, gesturing at his drink. Complaining about the poor service, maybe?

“I’m fine,” Clark said, pausing. He seemed preternaturally adept at sensing Bruce’s moods. Sure enough, his tone shifted. “You don’t sound okay. What happened?”

“I had a hard time leaving the suspect alone in the precinct,” Bruce admitted, jaw clenching. “I wanted to rip his head off for touching that girl. I almost did.” _but Jim suggested we get drinks and now I’m calm….er._

“He’ll serve a couple decades,” Clark said softly, reassuring. “Attempted kidnapping is one thing. Murder…”

Bruce caught the tail-end of a bloody thought, their mouths smeared in red. He winced, closing his eyes.

“We’re not the law in this town,” he reminded his husband. “As much as we’d like to be.”

“Speaking of the _law,_ ” Clark said, artfully changing the subject. “How’s Jim? Did your talk go alright?”

“Oh yeah,” Bruce said, frowning. He glanced back into the empty bar. “It went really well. We’re at Teddy’s right now.”

“You can’t drink.”

“I’m aware of that, yes.”

“Alright,” Clark said, “Well, when you’re done, I’d appreciate a ride home. I’m at Linda’s right now. We’re making cookies for Kayla when she gets back from the hospital.”

Bruce cringed. “I love you babe. Talk to you soon.”

“Love you too.”

He hung up, walking back to the bar and taking his seat. The bartender sent Jim a _look,_ disappearing back into the kitchen.

“You should take it easy on him,” he told Jim, “I’m pretty sure his girlfriend just dumped him before we got here.”

The other man frowned. He had a fresh glass of whiskey in front of him, but didn’t seem too intoxicated. Bruce had a hard time telling off drinks alone--some humans were much better at drinking than others.

“So,” Jim said, leaning an elbow against the bar. “If you drank my blood right now, would you get drunk?”

Bruce spluttered. If he’d had a drink, he would’ve spit it out. “ _T_ _hat’s_ what you want to ask me?”

“I’m curious,” Jim said, defensive. “I used to be a detective. Sue me.”

“I don’t know,” Bruce scrubbed a hand through his hair, refusing to inhale through his nose. “Probably? I think? I haven’t had human blood in…”

Jim went very still, watching him.

“Centuries,” Bruce finished, desperately wishing he for a drink. “Not since I was turned.”

“You drink animal blood,” Jim surmised. “That’s what the deer are for.”

“Yep.”

“I always wondered--why no one in town ever showed up with bite marks. No missing persons cases.” Jim took a sip from his glass, fumbling for his cigarettes. “You’re...vegetarians.”

“That’s one way to put it,” Bruce said, shaking his head. He leaned forward, digging his elbows into the bar. “Clark and I have been this way for a...very long time. The kids, almost as long.”

“You really won’t tell me how you met,” Jim said, lighting his cigarette. He exhaled smoke into the air, relaxing slightly. “Is it that bad?”

Bruce smiled. For a moment, the bar was overlaid in smoke and dirt, the air acrid in his throat. An intense pain burned between his ribs.

“Painful,” he joked, forcing a smile. The bar came back into focus. “We don’t like to talk about it.”

The other man shrugged, as if to say _that’s fair._

“And the kids?”

“Oh boy,” Bruce murmured, focusing. It _had_ been a couple centuries. “Dick, we picked up in a Roma settlement on the way to Northern India. He and his parents had been attacked in the mountains, their caravan ravaged. They left him for dead.”

“He was human,” Jim said, taking a drag from the cigarette. He was taking it surprisingly well. “You turned him?”

“I did,” Bruce said. “Clark begged me to. We’d always traveled together, quietly, under the radar. But when we saw him, bleeding and alone…”

Jim nodded, inclining his head. Bruce remembered that he had children himself--a son, and a daughter.

“We kept moving. A few decades later, Jason tried to pickpocket Clark in Rome.” Bruce smiled fondly, remembering the day. “He was a skinny kid. His mother had sold him into slavery, so you can imagine what his life was like. But he was tough. And quick enough to sneak past one of us.”

Jim kept silent, waiting for the punchline. Bruce pursed his lips.

“The last night we were in Rome, we found him on our doorstep. Covered in blood. Beaten within an inch of his life.” Bruce shook his head, hands clenching. “He’d disobeyed his master--trying to say goodbye to Dick. It wasn’t accepted, then, for someone of his...rank...to even look at us. The Romans were…”

He felt Jim’s mind tense.

“...brutal,” he finished. “We turned him, took him, and never looked back. Richard was thrilled--he had a sibling, or something close to it.”

“And your third?” Jim asked. “Tim, right?”

“A curious child in London,” Bruce shrugged. “I was studying as a professor. Clark was working as an assistant in one of the hospitals. He followed up both home, figured out something wasn’t right.”

Jim smiled, a hint of fondness in the curve of his lips. “A real detective, huh?”

“He was.” Bruce said. “His lungs had been damaged in the first World War. Mustard gas. He’d been drafted at eighteen, on the frontlines at Ypres when the Germans dropped gas on their positions.”

He paused, lapsing into silence. Jim puffed on his cigarette, waiting.

“Stephanie and Cass we picked up in Chicago, together. Victims of a serial killer. He’d--he’d buried them.” Bruce swallowed. “Alive.”

“Jesus.”

Bruce nodded. “Clark heard their gasps. We almost didn’t make it in time. This was the--the twenties, I think. The first time we’d been in America.”

 _And later that night, we found the man who did it,_ Bruce didn’t say, _and never spoke of it again._

“And the youngest one,” Jim said, gesturing with the cigarette. “Damian?”

“Damian,” Bruce smiled, shaking his head. “Is a special case. He was turned as a child in Syria, and traveled with his mother, Talia, for years. Clark and I had met her a long time ago, somewhere in Damascus.”

“What happened to her?”

“Hunters killed her.” Bruce shrugged. His hands clenched into fists again. “Before she died, Talia told Damian to search for us. To escape. He found us in New York, and since then, he’s stayed as part of our family.”

“Jesus,” Jim said, exhaling smoke. He rubbed his jaw. “You ever think about selling the rights to that story?”

Bruce laughed, startled by the man’s blase tone. “I have more than enough money, Jim.”

“Doesn’t mean I’m not gonna hit you for hunting without a license,” the other man mumbled, finishing his drink. He stood, bracing himself against the bar.

“Yeah, yeah.”

For a moment, they stood together in silence, watching the road through the lone window. Finally, Jim seemed to snap out of his trance.

“Can I get a ride home?”

Bruce blinked. Emotional whiplash hadn’t surprised him like this in...years.

“Sure,” he said, sensing a budding camaraderie between them. “Why not.”

* * *

 “And he was fine with everything?”

Bruce slid into bed, wrapping his arms around Clark’s stomach. He pulled them closer, pressing his face into his husband’s neck. “Absolutely, 100% totally fine with everything.”

“He’s not going to the press?”

“Nope.”

Clark frowned. “Is he going to have a mental breakdown in a week?”

“Strangely, I don’t think so.”

Bruce wrapped his mind around Clark’s, pushing a wave of warmth and adoration his way. He felt the other vampire relax against him, sinking into the pillows.

“I hate when you do that,” Clark slurred, eyes closing. Bruce carded a hand through his hair, stroking through the individual curls.

“You love it.”

“You’re right…” the other vampire yawned, his breathing slowing. “I do.”

A long silence followed. Clark was almost asleep when a hand drifted upward, grabbing his jaw.

“Babe.”

“Yeah?”

“Do you think Sergeant Gordon would like us to, uh,” Clark’s eyes fluttered, fighting off sleep. “Make him something? Like a pie?”

“He’s gluten intolerant.” Bruce replied, instantly.

“Really?” Clark asked, sleepily. “He never said anything.”

“Yep. Can’t have the stuff.”

“I could make a...gluten free crust. They have those now, you know that?”

“He also has nut allergies,” Bruce said, fumbling for a response, “Some issues with dairy. Really can’t eat anything, poor guy.”

Clark made a distressed noise. “That’s... _awful_ , Bruce.”

“Crying shame.”

Another long pause followed. This time, he swore Clark was asleep.

“Maybe I’ll buy him a nice bottle of wine,” the other vampire said, startling him. “That’s still a...thing, right?”

“Wine?”

“ _Nice_  wine.” a hand smacked his shoulder, hard enough to cleave boulders. Bruce winced. “Maybe I should start doing that.”

“Doing what?”

“Collecting wine.” Clark mumbled, snuggling against him. “So I don’t have to make anything. It’s just...ready.”

“That’s a great idea,” Bruce said, struggling to keep the the enthusiasm out of his voice. “We don’t use the wine cellar, so there’s plenty of room to start.”

“Mhmmm,” Clark sighed, his nose brushing Bruce’s neck. “Buy me a vineyard.”

“Whatever you want, babe.”

* * *

 Things quieted down. It was absurd to think that maybe--just _maybe_ \--their idyllic life in the countryside could remain unbothered. But maybe, somehow, it could.

Clark bought three vineyards, and attempted to make wine in their backyard with nothing but buckets, some grapes from the supermarket, and his feet. After several unsuccessful attempts, he wisely decided to bring in outside counsel.

Four months later, he had a small crop growing in each vineyard. Bruce was confident he still had no idea what the differences between the grapes were.

Jason and Dick enrolled in college online. This time, they’d switched focuses, pursuing some graduate degree in...speech pathology? There was a private joke there that Bruce made no attempts to understand. Education was education, after all.

Cass and Stephanie were both taking yoga classes in the main town, deciding to take a decade off of studying. Bruce didn’t blame them; sixteen doctorates and a handful of other degrees between him and Clark, and things got a little boring. Damian even tagged along once or twice, though the meditating did little to keep his mind still.

Tim bought several hundred dollars worth of computer equipment, and disappeared into his room. The family, for the most part, left him alone.

Kayla adjusted surprisigly well to her kidnapping. Bruce followed up once with Gordon to make sure he didn’t need to wipe her mind of the events, but she seemed to be doing alright. Her mother was taking her to therapy--somewhere three towns over, expensive--but it seemed to be helping.

Glenview was _quiet_. Which really should have been the first warning sign.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A quick bridge update until we can get to the juicy stuff!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! I swear this is almost done. I figured I would post the first half of this chapter since a lot of people have been asking for it and it's been marinating on my computer. I should have the final chapter up soon!

Bruce opened the door, smiling just wide enough to hide his incisors. Jim wobbled a little on the front step, hand poised to knock. He dropped his arm, blinking.

“Hey, Jim.”

“Mr. Wayne,” Jim nodded, adjusting his scarf. “Thanks again for having me.”

“Bruce, please.” he said, stepping to the side. “Come in. The boys are just finishing setting the table.”

Jim nodded, stepping over the threshold. Bruce took his coat, noting the reduced smell of cigarette smoke in the fabric. _Maybe he’s quitting,_ he thought, not willing to breach the man’s mind. _Good for him_.

Bruce led him into the living room, gesturing toward a seat near the crackling fireplace. Jim ignored him, stepping toward the row of photos on the mantelpiece.

“Kohl’s,” Bruce replied, sensing the curiosity settling around the other man’s mind. “They come with the frames.”

Jim turned his head abruptly, a frame held precariously in one hand. He relaxed a second later, dropping the frame back onto the mantel. “I still forget you can do that.”

“Do what?” Bruce asked, mischievous. Jim sent him a droll stare, clearly unamused.

“Where’s your better half?” he asked, sliding a finger along the mantel. _Checking for dust?_ It almost looked like he was examining a crime scene.

“In the kitchen.”

The hand Jim had on the mantel suddenly gripped the wood tightly. Despite the sudden turmoil Bruce could sense in his mind, the man’s face was perfectly composed; a man resigned, bravely, to any fate in store for him.

“ _Bruce_ ,” Dick hissed, entering from the dining room. “Don’t tease him like that. He looks like he’s about to have a heart attack.”

Jim relaxed slightly as Dick put a hand on his shoulder, leaning in amicably.

“Clark is plating the food that we ordered from a _caterer,_ ” Dick said, almost too loudly, into Jim’s ear. “The only thing he made was the ice cubes. And I would still stay away from those.”

The pure relief emanating from Jim was almost dizzying. Bruce shook his head, waving at Dick.

“Why don’t you show our guest to the dining room?”

Jim’s head snapped up.

“Where are you going?”

“To make fresh ice cubes, clearly.”

* * *

Jim took a spoonful of peas, placing them carefully next to his meatballs. At Clark’s insistence, he also took a heaping serving of candied beets. The red liquid stained the edges of his cornbread, placed precariously between a pile of beans and frog legs. Next to the legs, Jim had also (reluctantly) accepted a pair of babyback ribs from Clark, who’d snuck a few pieces of Jamaican fried chicken onto the man’s plate when he wasn’t looking.

“Thank you, but this is so much,” Jim said, refusing another plate from Clark. He grabbed his fork, eyeing the heaping plate with some trepidation. “Clark, really, you’re too kind. This looks…”

 _Terrifying,_ Bruce superimposed, reading the man’s thoughts. _Unpalatable._

“...incredible.” he finished, looking up. Clark looked absolutely pleased.

“Are you sure you won’t take some pot roast?” he asked, ignoring the _look_ Jason gave him from his elbow. “I gave the caterer my mother’s recipe. I was hoping they could do something with it.”

Clark held up a spoon from one of the metal pans, heaped with brown chunks of meat. To the best of Bruce’s knowledge, the original recipe had called for liver and...rabbit?

 _Don’t,_ he willed in Jim’s direction, praying the man could hear him. _Bad. Warning sign. Red flashing lights. Do Not Eat. BAD._

“Well, if it was your mother’s recipe,” Jim said, giving Clark a trembling, desperate smile. “A small taste, maybe?”

Clark’s hand flashed across the table, depositing at least two spoonfuls onto the man’s plate. Jim flinched, but doubled down, hoisting his fork over the meal.

“Cheers,” he muttered under his breath. Bruce met Dick’s eyes, restraining a smile.

The vampires sat in silence as Jim took his first few bites, their plates empty. It didn’t escape the other man’s attention.

“Are you sure you can’t--”

“We already ate,” Clark said, interrupting whatever Tim had been about to say. “We didn’t want to get in the way.” he smiled. “How does it taste?”

Jim swallowed with a little more force than necessary. He took a sip of ice water, sending Bruce a grateful glance. “It tastes amazing, Clark.”

Clark’s smile was blinding.

* * *

Pie plates littered the table. The brood had abandoned the table less than twenty minutes into the meal, bored of watching a human eat. Clark seemed riveted by it--watching as Jim took forkfuls, examining the way he chewed.

Bruce kept a careful eye on his husband, but it seemed harmless enough. As Jim finished, Clark sat back carefully into his chair, practically overflowing with gossip.

“Is it true the playground proposal is being voted on next week?” he asked, excited. “I was part of the advisory group for the PTO but it’s all sort of up in the air now, you know? And nobody wants a bad playground--I mean, have you seen the one they have up in Parkville? It’s all boring grey metal, and they don’t even have a _slide._ I mean, who does that to kids?”

Jim’s eyes widened, almost imperceptibly. He cleared his throat, attempting the question bravely.

“I, uh, don’t know much about that. We don’t hear a lot of PTO talk at the station, you know. Only if there’s kids in trouble.”

“Oh, with what happened to Kayla--wasn’t that _awful_?” Clark asked, blinking lightning-fast, a hand to his mouth. “Who would do such a thing to a little girl?”

The reminder sent a strange thrill through Bruce, sparking anger he’d managed to keep under wraps all week. Jim glanced at him, almost as if he’d sensed the brief slip.

“Bad people,” he said, looking at Clark. “That’s all I can tell you.”

“It scares me,” Clark admitted. “I don’t like to think about people who could do that.”

Jim quirked a brow. “It’s not like you guys have many...natural predators.”

“Only other vampires,” Bruce interjected, solemn. He could feel Jim’s curiosity pique. “Have you seen Clark after he burns brownies?” he asked, forcing a smile. “Deadly.”

Clark threw his napkin at him, laughing.

* * *

Jim took a drag, head tilting as Bruce approached. He blew smoke up past the porch’s edge, watching it spiral around the snow. His mind was quiet, but there was something rippling underneath the surface.

“You tensed up earlier,” Jim said, after a moment of silence. He was watching the stars, or at least trying to. Bruce couldn’t remember how accurate human sight was anymore. “When you mentioned other vampires.”

Bruce said nothing, letting the other man mull over it. Jim exhaled another lungful of smoke, watching it drift upwards. The bitter scent filled the porch briefly, overwhelming his senses.

“I’m no detective,” Jim said, wrinkling his nose. He turned to Bruce, leaning against the railing. “But I have a feeling you didn’t suddenly just pull a muscle in your back.”

“I’ve felt a few minds on the edges of town,” Bruce admitted, putting a hand to his head. He didn’t get tired--none of them did anymore--but suddenly, he was exhausted. “Vampires passing through, mostly. But in the last month or so…”

“Someone’s sticking around?”

“Something like that.” Bruce twisted a hand by his head, frustrated. “I can’t explain. Sometimes, I think I sense someone, but they disappear.”

Jim flicked his ash over the railing. “You haven’t told Clark.”

“There haven’t been any deaths. No missing persons reports--”

“Except for Kayla.”

Bruce tilted his head. “She was abducted by a human. You saw.”

“You don’t think there’s any connection?”

Bruce narrowed his eyes, feeling Jim’s mind latch onto something. “What are you not telling me?”

Jim’s eyes met his, filled with a glimmer of half-bitter amusement. “You can’t tell?”

“I wasn’t going to intrude.”

“Polite,” Jim muttered, taking a drag. He turned back toward the porch’s edge. “The perp we picked up swore he couldn’t remember anything. We charged him, and he should do the time, but--”

Bruce frowned, narrowing in on what Jim was trying to put to words. The realization hit him like a sledgehammer, until all he could think was _stupid stupid stupid--_

Before he could stop himself, his fangs were bared, his entire body rippling with tension. The hand he’d had on the railing contracted, splintering the wood into dust. He barely felt it.

Jim’s face was white, hovering by the porch as his heart rate leapt to dangerous levels.

“Wayne,” he said, voice firm, not betraying the fear coursing through his veins. Bruce flinched from the sound of his heartbeat. “Talk to me.”

It took a moment to calm down, relaxing muscle by muscle until he could speak again. Across the property, he could hear Clark begin making his way over, concerned.

“ _Wayne_.”

“Poachers,” he muttered, teeth aching. He looked up at Jim, still standing steadily in front of him. “I can’t believe I didn’t see…”

“Vampire...poachers?”

“Kayla,” Bruce shook his head, laughing. “She was supposed to be a meal. Young, healthy. He was taking her to someone. He got caught. They got nervous--”

Clark burst through the front door, alarmed. He landed in Bruce arms, clutching him tightly. “What happened?”

“Another vampire,” Jim said, frowning. “You think it’s connected? But wouldn’t they have to feed before th--”

Before he could finish, Jim’s radio let out a burst of static. Bruce stared at the man’s pocket, frozen.

_“Dispatch to Gordon,”_

“I--”

It squawked again, more urgently. _“Dispatch to Gordon, come in. Repeat, Dispatch to Gordon--”_

Jim met his eyes, hand lowering slowly to his pocket. He removed the radio, depressing the talk button.

“This is Gordon. Go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More soon!

**Author's Note:**

> One more chapter should be up soon. Let me know what you thought!


End file.
